Angar knelt in the incense-heavy chapel, praying and meditating in his strange way, his mind sinking into the inner depths of consciousness.

As he reflected on battles past and future, he probed the newly ascended foundation of his core, his source of power rebuilt stronger, more potent. What was once firm and solid had transformed, becoming fluid and expansive, a promise of potential.

He explored, tested what he could, noting the different feel. Knowledge like this could prove useful.

Stepping out of the chapel, the prefab door hissed shut behind him, sealing the sacred space with a pneumatic clank.

The pre-dawn gloom of Tribute clung to the air, thick with sulfurous fog that set his cybernetic eye to adjusting.

His body burned with energy, every muscle taut, veins buzzing with an electric charge that demanded he test his new capabilities.

Gripping his hammer, he moved out, the clawed tripod-toes of his digitigrade cybernetics digging into the moist, forest-littered ground.

A large group of Lord Hungers members and some staff from South and North Point would arrive after morning worship, walking or shuttling in to face the gateway opening later that day in supervised safety.

He craved to charge it alone, to let the glory of battle sing through his blood, his maul's fury crushing whatever horrors spilled forth.

But they were to strengthen his people, not himself.

He nodded to a perimeter guard, his heavy steps carrying him into the thick forest. The burning fog swirled as he moved through it, muffling sound and dimming sight.

He caught the movement of a vilgash, its viscous form coiled in a tree. It was half the size of a d'klar, but its blazing speed, venomous claws, and tearing bite made it far deadlier.

Angar raised his hand and Lightning Bolt surged with a thought. A crackling cone of yellow electricity erupted, pulsing once before ending. The vilgash convulsed and dropped, charred and lifeless.

So, the Ability ended if its target died, the crackle fading with the creature's last twitch. Useful to know.

A minute later, the cooldown passed, and Angar targeted a gnarled bristle-tree, its bark covered with some badland blight he was unfamiliar with.

Lightning Bolt flared again, pulsing seven times, once initially, then every half a second for three seconds, a wide arc of crackling energy bathing the tree in destruction.

The Reliquary of Wrath ring, warm against his finger, had done its work, extending the Ability's duration by 20%, from 2.5 seconds to 3, granting one extra tick of lightning.

The tree split like flesh under a lash, reduced to a smoldering stump, its core blackened, while the surrounding copse stood untouched, the lightning's wrath ignoring everything but his target.

That wouldn't be true if enemies were in the 60-degree cone. He assumed it wouldn't ignore electronics either.

Satisfied, Angar turned to his Skill training, testing his improvements.

His Electrokinesis came more easily, the psionic energy crackling at his fingertips.

Of all the times he practiced, rarely had the Eye of Mentality mod granting a 25% chance psionic energy expenditure wouldn't lower Resilience triggered. Either he was doing something wrong, or the trigger chance was more like 2.5%.

He wished there was a way to test Psychic Defenses, but there wasn't, so he tried moving like Spirit did in battle, flipping over the ground, leaping between stumps and rocks, his cybernetic legs absorbing the impacts.

Each landing was deliberate, his Blocking Tactics honed as he imagined parrying an enemy's claws with his forearm, shin, or his hammer's haft.

He flowed into Close Combat drills, shadow-striking with maul and Hand-to-Hand precision, his claws slashing through the air.

His weapons felt like true extensions of his soul, his unarmored body's movements lighter and easier. He swung, kicked, and gouged in tight arcs, facing an imaginary army.

His spirit burned to face the gateway alone, requiring him to suppress the urge.

As the chapel's bell tolled, its mournful clang muffled by the planet's thick atmosphere, a handbell's sharp peal cut through the fog, summoning the Lord Hungers' faithful to their daily worship.

Angar strode through the new dawn's gloom, nearly the same as the pre-dawn gloom, skirting the perimeter.

He passed under the rift-site's entry gate, its massive wooden arch looming overhead, etched with 'The Lord Hungers.' He'd ordered such arches added to South and North Point, and saw no reason to exclude the rift-site.

Two clergy and one guard from the rift-site staff had joined his cult. He quickened his pace, eager to judge if these non-Tributeans would perform the simple liturgical exchange correctly.

He moved toward where the handbell had tolled, the clearing nearer the corsair, where the Hierarchs dwelt in modern comfort.

Other than the mandatory Sunday Mass, other cults performed daily service in temples, but his would hold worship anywhere members stood, without pulpit or altar, as they lived scattered, their lives a relentless grind of survival.

Angar joined the small congregation, his towering frame casting a shadow over the gathered adherents. They scanned him nervously, and he took their measure.

The guard didn't look strong. As genetic diversity was important, some feeble off-worlders becoming Tributeans was necessary, especially females, as there weren't enough local women.

He had told Jon to do what he could to entice off-world unmarried women workers. There were a lot of widows in the Holy Empire. Poor houses were full of them.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

His gaze flicked to the two clergy. They didn't look strong either, but that was no matter. The Lord Hungers needed as many ordained Ecclesiastic as they could get. Cult members or not, ordained clergy were barred from joining warrior covenants and procreating, so couldn't infect the gene-pool with their weakness anyway.

He shifted his grip on the hammer, its runed head dimly glowing in the gloom, as he envisioned the Genitoriums soon to rise, where only the strongest blood would forge the cult's sacred future.

When operational, they'd be rigged so only the offspring of genetically enhanced Tributean Crusaders, both mother and father, could take root. That meant at least half the children raised in warrior covenants would come of superior stock.

A Presbyter stepped forward, indicating his willingness to lead daily service, and the congregation stilled, the worship beginning.

"Warriors of the Lord Hungers," the Presbyter bellowed, raising a gauntleted fist, "kneel now and bow your heads in silent prayer!"

Angar dropped to one knee, the hydraulics in his cybernetic legs churning. The other clergyman and the guard followed, their armor clinking as they knelt, heads lowered in unison. Eyes closed, or metal lids performing the same function, and hands were pressed together in prayer.

The Presbyter's voice thundered. "The unyielding wrath of the King of Kings demands certainty in our superiority, our intolerance for the feeble and pathetic infesting our ranks! Any among you whose spirit falters with doubt, harbors cowardice, or hesitates to embrace glorious martyrdom, while heads are bowed and eyes shut, depart now in secrecy!"

The clearing was silent as the three congregants prayed, save for the hymn sung in the nearby chapel and the distant crackle of thunder and skysparks.

Of course, no one fled. After a minute of prayer, the Presbyter continued. "Let the weak flee, for the devout remain, superior to all others, our pride a Holy beacon lighting our path to unending glory. Fill up your hearts!"

"We fill them up with hate!" the congregation roared.

"Let hate overflow as we live and train, preparing to reap an unholy harvest!" the Presbyter intoned, his eyes blazing through the fog. "We spit upon the enemies of the Holy Empire, and we suffer not the Heretic to live. Lift up your hearts!"

"We lift them up to the Three!" the voices boomed in response.

"We are the unstoppable hammers of God's wrath," the Presbyter declared, pacing before them, his armor rattling. "We are the unyielding force that shatters the profane. Purge your minds!"

"We purge them of doubt and fear!" tore from their throats.

"With each breath until our last," the Presbyter roared, "our lives shall be devoted to war, our hearts burning with righteous fire, our flesh vessels of ceaseless might, our minds ablaze with sacred fervor, our spirits unbreakable, our souls incorruptible. What are we?"

"We are warriors of the Lord Hungers, pernicious and pertinacious!" shook through the clearing.

"We shall become the unrivaled champions of this galaxy," the Presbyter proclaimed, his fist slamming against his breastplate emblazoned with the Trey, "the unbreaking spear piercing the throats of our Empire's innumerable foes, making even the ancient evils of Hell quake in fear. Why do we live?"

"To sate the Lord's thirst for blood and war!" thundered the flock's voices.

"Knowing the Almighty's thirst is unquenchable, we give Him His due, a crimson tithe of slaughter until our last breath, when He grants us eternal bliss in Heaven. What could be more important than family?"

"Our faith, our Empire!" the response resounded.

"This is true. Stand now, warriors of the Lord Hungers!" the Presbyter commanded.

The congregation stood as one, their armor clanking, their eyes burning with zeal, shouting, "We stand as a bulwark against oblivion, as Holy wrath incarnate, vowing to protect the worthy with our faith, our fury, our lives!"

The Presbyter nodded solemnly. "May the Three be with you."

"And also with you."

"Bow your heads for the blessing." The flock complied, and the brother continued. "May the Almighty accept your last breath and eternal soul into His Kingdom, may the blessed Mother protect you from dark corruption, and may Divine Theosis reward you well for battles fought."

"Amen," replied the congregants in unison.

"Go now to war, train, and labor, glorifying our tenets in your daily lives, letting your great pride humble you before only the Holy Trinity," the Presbyter's final words ending the worship.

Angar turned away, glad the service had unfolded mostly as it should.

To join the Lord Hungers was to instantly become special, superior to everyone else, gaining a great purpose, a life of meaning. The short daily service was meant to reinforce that.

He left the required Sunday Mass given by the ordained Ecclesiastic to cover the full worship experience of hymns, homilies, and sermons.

Unlike the Church's unrequired weekday worships dragging out for half an hour, this cult service was required, but lasted only a few minutes, intended to hammer tenets into every beat with profound force.

In his opinion, that was the best way to indoctrinate.

If people forced him to see them as a mindless, malleable blob, he would shape them with the correct views, including that of pride, even beyond magnanimity, not being a sin.

He wondered if he should modify the 'pernicious and pertinacious' response. He'd have to ask around, see if people understood the meaning of those two words.

He wanted to include ancestor veneration into the cult's tenets, but since they were still waiting on some exceptions from standard dogma to be approved, that had to wait.

Satisfaction burned in his chest, but he needed to confirm the Presbyter wasn't monopolizing the daily rite. The Lord Hungers demanded rotation of who led the liturgical exchange among congregants.

He stepped forward, intent on questioning the priest, when he noticed the emaciated frame of Hierarch Blagochestie approaching through the haze like a ghostly specter.

As the Eyes of Providence Knight with the same Cloisteranage-given name, this Hierarch went by Chesty, despite the irony of his complete lack of a chest. His sharp eyes, shadowed under hooded brows, locked onto Angar.

"Ah," Hierarch Chesty said in an elderly rasp. He halted a respectful pace away, inclining his gaunt head slightly. "You've ascended, Child. Congratulations."

"Thank you, Hierarch," Angar replied. It bothered him when people were sensitive enough to gauge the Tier of others. He needed to learn how to mask that.

Chesty's thin lips cracked into a smile, his bony fingers twitching as if to gesture. "If you have a moment, I'd like to discuss joining the Lord Hungers. I'd…"

The words were drowned out as a massive shuttle blazed in, hovering right next to them, its thrusters kicking up a whirlwind of debris.

The hatch groaned open, revealing Anarat strangely free of his power armor and Doc Laoch framed in the spacious and mostly bare interior.

"We couldn't reach you through comms," Anarat bellowed over the idling roar, leaping down with a thud that scattered pebbles and foliage. He closed the distance in two strides. "We need to go, Sir."

Angar's brows furrowed, the fog swirling around them like accusing spirits. "You're not supposed to be back for at least two months."

Anarat nodded. "The Thorned Chalice called a Crusade, Sir. Millions of Pleiadeans have been trapped in underground bunkers for a thousand years on Abyssalhome, and they're set to open in half a year or so. The Saint wants you there Crusading."

Angar couldn't prevent his face from splitting into a grim smile, the thrill of battling on a Hellworld igniting in his chest. There'd be gateways appearing like mad, enemies without end, spilling forth like a tide of filth to slaughter. "I have to hit South Point for my equipment."

Anarat nodded. "No problem, Sir. Simo's there greeting his family, but we've got to rush."

Angar yelled out, "Sorry. I must go, Hierarch," to Chesty as he climbed aboard, his cybernetic feet clanking against the metal floor. He sank onto a bench, glad this shuttle fit him so easily, and with plenty of room to spare, the vibrations of it buzzing through his body.

There was still much to do on Tribute, but it would continue fine without him. The Lord Hungers had hit critical mass. Nothing could stop it now. It'd only improve as clergy ranks began returning from and cycling through Seminary and exile, culling the pathetic and feeble.

His thoughts drifted to what Jon had told him after the battle in South Point. Hidetada had provided instructions for what to do if Angar died, how to hide the loss from locals, press on without falter, all that.

Jon had pieced together Hidetada had used Angar as unwitting bait for Azgoth, fearfully whispering it to him in secret, as if it was a new revelation.

Angar didn't resent being bait. He saw Hidetada as filling the role Spirit once held, leading him from one glorious battle to the next.

He was certain Abyssalhome would be no different, and he'd be used as bait for something terrible there. He hoped so.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.